The Frog and the Nightingale by Vikram Seth

An amazing poem talking about the how dangerous , trusting someone blindly can be,

The Frog and the Nightingale by Vikram Seth

The frog and the nightingale

Once upon a time a frogCroaked away in Bingle BogEvery night from dusk to dawnHe croaked awn and awn and awn

Other creatures loathed his voice,But, alas, they had no choice,And the crass cacophonyBlared out from the sumac treeAt whose foot the frog each nightMinstrelled on till morning night

Neither stones nor prayers nor sticks.Insults or complaints or bricksStilled the frogs determinationTo display his heart's elation.But one night a nightingaleIn the moonlight cold and palePerched upon the sumac treeCasting forth her melodyDumbstruck sat the gaping frogAnd the whole admiring bogStared towards the sumac, rapt,

And, when she had ended, clapped,Ducks had swum and herons wadedTo her as she serenadedAnd a solitary loonWept, beneath the summer moon.Toads and teals and tiddlers, capturedBy her voice, cheered on, enraptured:“Bravo!” “Too divine!” “Encore!”So the nightingale once more,Quite unused to such applause,Sang till dawn without a pause.

Next night when the NightingaleShook her head and twitched her tail,Closed an eye and fluffed a wingAnd had cleared her throat to singShe was startled by a croak.“Sorry – was that you who spoke?”She enquired when the frogHopped towards her from the bog.“Yes,” the frog replied. “You see,I'm the frog who owns this treeIn this bog I've long been knownFor my splendid baritoneAnd, of course, I wield my penFor Bog Trumpet now and then”

“Did you… did you like my song?”“Not too bad – but far too long.The technique was fine of course,But it lacked a certain force”.“Oh!” the nightingale confessed.Greatly flattered and impressedThat a critic of such noteHad discussed her art and throat:“I don't think the song's divine.But – oh, well – at least it's mine”.

“That's not much to boast about”.Said the heartless frog. “WithoutProper training such as I- And few others can supply.You'll remain a mere beginner.But with me you'll be a winner”“Dearest frog”, the nightingaleBreathed: “This is a fairy tale –And you are Mozart in disguiseCome to earth before my eyes”.

“Well I charge a modest fee.”“Oh!” “But it won't hurt, you'll see”Now the nightingale inspired,Flushed with confidence, and firedWith both art and adoration,Sang – and was a huge sensation.Animals for miles aroundFlocked towards the magic sound,And the frog with great precisionCounted heads and charged admission.

Though next morning it was raining,He began her vocal training.“But I can't sing in this weather”“Come my dear – we'll sing together.Just put on your scarf and sash,Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash!”So the frog and nightingaleJourneyed up and down the scaleFor six hours, till she was shiveringand her voice was hoarse and quivering.

Though subdued and sleep deprived,In the night her throat revived,And the sumac tree was bowed,With a breathless, titled crowd:Owl of Sandwich, Duck of Kent,Mallard and Milady Trent,Martin Cardinal Mephisto,And the Coot of Monte Cristo,Ladies with tiaras glitteringIn the interval sat twittering –And the frog observed them glitterWith a joy both sweet and bitter.

Every day the frog who'd sold herSongs for silver tried to scold her:“You must practice even longerTill your voice, like mine grows stronger.In the second song last nightYou got nervous in mid-flight.And, my dear, lay on more trills:Audiences enjoy such frills.You must make your public happier:Give them something sharper snappier.We must aim for better billings.You still owe me sixty shillings.”

Day by day the nightingaleGrew more sorrowful and pale.Night on night her tired songZipped and trilled and bounced along,Till the birds and beasts grew tiredAt a voice so uninspiredAnd the ticket office grossCrashed, and she grew more morose -For her ears were now addictedTo applause quite unrestricted,And to sing into the nightAll alone gave no delight.

Now the frog puffed up with rage.“Brainless bird – you're on the stage –Use your wits and follow fashion.Puff your lungs out with your passion.”Trembling, terrified to fail,Blind with tears, the nightingaleHeard him out in silence, tried,Puffed up, burst a vein, and died.

Said the frog: “I tried to teach her,But she was a stupid creature –Far too nervous, far too tense.Far too prone to influence.Well, poor bird – she should have knownThat your song must be your own.That's why I sing with panache:“Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash!”And the foghorn of the frogBlared unrivalled through the bog.